


In Ink or in Blood

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, First Impressions, First Meetings, Gambling, Implied Past Child Abuse, Implied Slash, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: The streets of Brooklyn are not entirely unfamiliar to Racetrack Higgins, although this is the first time he's dared to venture as far in as the lodging house. It's the biggest gamble of his life, but he doesn't care. Not right now. Not with blood on his knuckles and the screams of his friends in his ears. Race is out for blood, even if it ends up being his own."Where's Spot Conlon?"





	In Ink or in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> What?! Artie actually wrote something canon-era!? I know, I'm as surprised as you...  
> This is based on a weird little thought I had one random watch of Newsies - that surely if Race had some sort of even quasi-friendship with Spot, then wouldn't it have made sense to send him to invite him to the strike? Which spawned the idea of 'what if Race doesn't meet Spot until after the strike begins?'  
> I've also always had issue with the idea that Race lives in Lower Manhattan but sells at Sheepshead - that's something of a ten- to fifteen-mile hike, and for a kid to make that walk, round trip, on a daily basis, would not only be exhausting with the weight of the papers but also seriously cut into his selling time. 
> 
> And then, as all of my oneshots seem to do, it spiraled from there.

The streets of Brooklyn are not entirely unfamiliar to Racetrack, although this is the first time he's dared to venture this far into the heart of it since he became a newsie. Generally, when he crosses the Bridge, he hops a trolley car straight toward Sheepshead. The Brooklyn boys don't bother him so long as he doesn't sell on their turf; losing his money at the races is fine by them. So whenever he's had a particularly good selling day, he'll take his pocketful of coins to the racetracks and try his luck on the ponies.

It's how he got his name, after all. Nobody likes a gamble so much as Racetrack Higgins.

This time he's not headed for the races, but it's still probably the biggest gamble he's ever taken in his life. Somewhere in the back of his head he knows that - knows that what he's doing is nothing short of a death wish - but he doesn't care. Not right now. Not with the righteous fury burning in his chest, with blood on his knuckles and the screams of his friends still echoing in his ears. Racer's always had a short temper - an unfortunate inheritance from his old man - and right now, he's sparking like a firecracker.

Race is out for blood, even if it ends up being his own.

Although he's never been there before, Race knows the general area of the Brooklyn lodging house. It's late enough into the evening now that odds are high people will be there. A few Brooklyn newsies are lingering around the door, and they glare at him suspiciously as he approaches. Race returns their stares venomously, daring them to try and stop him. (Turns out they dare.)

"Whatcha doin' here, kid?" the taller of the two asks, stepping in front of him as Race starts for the door. He's got a blotchy red birthmark below one eye, shaped a bit like an upside-down heart.

"Where's Spot Conlon?" Race barks. His vision is still a bit fuzzy on the one side, his eye slowly swelling from the baton blow he took, but he can see enough to watch the other newsie joining his friend. Both of them are bigger than Race, but he's riding high on adrenaline and rage. "M'lookin' for youse boss."

"Ain't you that 'Hattan kid? The one hangs at the races?" the second Brooklyn boy says, eyes narrowing.

"Where's Spot Conlon?" Race repeats through gritted teeth.

"The hell you want with him?" Heart-splotch asks, folding his arms over his chest.

"Tell me where ta' find him, or I'mma go through ya," Race growls, cracking his knuckles pointedly. The blood dried on his skin flakes at the movement, leaving streaks. The Brooklyn boys both smirk at him, condescending, and Race's patience fractures to pieces. He might not be the strongest, but he's fast. Hauling back, Race manages to slug the first boy in the jaw before either of them have time to react.

A blow catches Race in the side of his head, knocking him sideways, and then the second boy tackles him to the ground. Pain lances through Race at the impact, reigniting every bruise forming on his body, and he lets out a wild, animal noise as he kicks out at his attackers. It's a savage brawl, the two boys attempting to pin him while Race fights them off like a rabid dog, furious and frantic, teeth and claws.

"The fuck's goin' on here?"

The commanding voice splits through the evening air, harsh and sharp as a whip crack, and the Brooklyn boys immediately fall back. Snarling, Race shoves up to his feet, heart pounding in his ears. His split lip is bleeding again, and now his nose is too, but he bares his teeth as he meets the gaze of the person who's appeared on the front steps of the lodging house.

Race has never met Spot Conlon before, the leader of Brooklyn something like a mythical being from legends that the younger kids whisper about in the darkening hours. Rumors run rampant about the boy, tales of how the king took his throne - some stories say he shoved the former leader off a fire escape or the harbor, some say he beat him to a pulp in a back alley. Some even say he launched a full-scale war by amassing an army of loyal boys and driving the former crew clean out of the neighborhood. There are horror stories about how he got the name Spot, saying that the day he took control of Brooklyn he showed up at the lodging house speckled with blood. There are millions of terrifying rumors about the infamous King of Brooklyn.

As Race sets eyes on the boy in question, he can't help but feel the tiniest bit - _underwhelmed_.

Spot Conlon is still an imposing figure, for sure, carrying himself with a familiar air of authority and confidence, but darker and more intimidating than Jack's. He scowls down at Race, eyebrow raised in an unimpressed expression with his arms crossed over his chest. This is clearly someone who's used to having his orders followed, who's used to his word being law. Race takes one look at the boy's biceps and has zero doubt that he could cream Race into the dirt without much trouble. But he's also just sorta _short_.

"Got a death wish, 'Hattan?" Spot drawls. "Whatcha doin', coming and pickin' fights on my turf?"

"Came fa' you," Race hisses. He takes a step closer and sees several Brooklyn boys inch closer to their leader's side, ready to intervene at a moment's notice. "Came ta' see the coward king fa' myself."

More than one boy makes motions toward Race at that, but Spot holds up a hand to stop them. "Best watch ya'self," Spot warns, eyes narrowed.

"No, youse gonna hear what I gotta say first," Race retorts fiercely. "'Cause the blood's on your hands and youse gonna know it."

Spot's gaze sweeps down Race's figure, taking in the state of him, the blood and bruises fresh on his skin. "Ain't the one who went stirrin' up trouble, 'Hattan; that's all on ya boy Jacky."

"No, 'cause it's thanks ta' _you_ that we went it alone," Race says. "Ya wanted to sit back, wait ta' see if it's worth ya time 'cause youse so damn important ya can't waste a sec', right? 'Cept ya got ev'ry otha borough so scared'a crossin' ya that they won't do nothin' without ya say-so. So my boys, my _family_ , went out there alone today. We was the only ones there ta' stand up ta' Pulitzer's thugs."

"Didn't go so good, I take it?" Spot asks sarcastically.

Growling, Race steps closer, ignoring the looming Brooklyn newsies that close in around him. "They called the Bulls on us, and the Spider. Half my boys is laid up, barely made it outta there 'live. Romeo's still out cold, can't wake him up. The li'lest one, on'y nine, he got his wrist bust. And four our kids is in Refuge now, includin' the one that's a'ready a cripple."

Spot's brow draws, the first flicker of emotion Race's seen on his face. "That crip kid that shadows Kelly ev'rywhere? Crutches, ain't it?"

"Crutchie. Spider's boys dragged him outta the square screamin'," Race seethes bitterly, the memory ringing painfully in his skull. "Ya know what the Refuge is like. Ya know what they do ta' kids like him in there. Anythin' that happens ta' him there, that's on your hands."

"No, that's on you lot," Spot counters. "Youse the ones went startin' things. Whole damn strike was youse idea."

"And if you'd'a been there, we could'a _won it_!" Race is shouting before he realizes it, stepping forward until he's in Spot's face. One of the Brooklyn boys shoves him hard in the chest, pushing him back, and Race snarls as he smacks the hand away. "You _know_ what we's doin' is right. You _know_ we don't deserve the shit Pulitzer and them's pullin'.

"But no, ya had to wait and see if it's worth the time of someone _so damn 'portant_ as you. Say ya want proof, like we gotta pass a test ta' be worth ya time. You says maybe, and the rest the city deserts us, so yeah, it's on _you_ . Every kid got soaked today, every kid ended up in Refuge, all that's on your hands, _your majesty_." He pours as much contempt into the title as he can and then spits at his feet. All around him, knuckles crack ominously.

Spot's eyes, so dark they're almost black, are narrowed as he steps forward to close the distance between them. Even standing a stair above Race, he's shorter, but his gaze is hard as flint. "I'mma give ya this one chance," he says, voice low and dangerous. "'Cause yeah, I 'spected youse boys to cheese it first chance ya got, but ya didn't, and that's somethin'. So this is it, kid; ya turn 'round and leave now, and I'mma forget this happened. But if any'a my boys see ya set foot on my turf again, the soakin' the Bulls gave ya's gonna feel like a tickle. Got me?"

Race can feel it, can feel the tremor in the air that says Spot means every word he says. Some reckless, angry part of him wants to push, wants to go down swinging, but what good does that do? Burn bridges with Brooklyn forever, start an all-out war between the boroughs when Manhattan's already been kicked to the ground? Gritting his teeth, Race takes a deep breath and steps back.

"I said my piece," he says flatly. "But you _betta_ not forget it." Race holds the king's gaze for one more, long second, and then he turns on his heel and marches away with his head held high.

His pulse is dizzying as it thrums against his ribs, every bone in his body aches, and he wants nothing more than to collapse into his bed at the lodging house (which he can't afford anymore) and sleep for days. At the same time, as he starts the long walk back across the Bridge toward home, he feels good. Sure, he got a bit stomped. Sure, he ain't never gonna be able to go to the races again. But he just stood up to the most feared kid in all New York.

Let Spot Conlon think about what he said; let the mighty king of Brooklyn know what happens when you screw over Manhattan.

* * *

Race decides immediately that there's nothing like being front page news. The boys spend the day passing the paper around between them all, first at Jacobi's and then at the lodging house when they return to tend to the ones who are more injured. It's a small glimmer of hope among it all, that photo plastered across the front page of the Sun. A little sign that what they suffered might've served a purpose. Folks _know_ , now. It's not just the newsies. All of New York's gonna see what's happening down here.

That's gotta mean _something_.

Of course, they need all the hope they can get right now. At least half of them are gonna be sleeping on the streets again tonight since they walked away from selling this morning. Since none of them sold yesterday either, it was a long night tucked into dark alleys and fire escapes for most. The older ones pooled together their spare coins to lodge the three most injured newsies for the night, but they aren't going to be able to afford that again.

Much as sleeping outside's no fun, Race is sort of grateful not to be in the lodging room at the same time. The empty beds draw everyone's eyes like moths to a flame, a silent, hollow reminder of the ones that aren't there to celebrate with them. Specs' been to the Refuge to check already, scaling the fire escape in the middle the night to get an eye on their boys. The four of the Manhattan newsies who got locked up are all still alive and, apart from Crutchie, apparently ain't in too bad of shape. Least not worse than any of them on the outside. Crutchie got the worst of it, of course, which makes Race's blood boil. No honor in soaking the ones that can't defend themselves and Spider sure ain't got honor.

The biggest hole in their group, though, is from one that's still not accounted for. No one's seen hide nor hair of Jack since the strike turned upside-down, and his absence chafes at them all. Fellas have gone to check out some of his usual haunts, but no one's found him yet. They're listless and untethered, not sure where to go next without their valiant leader, and none is more agitated by it than Davey.

"Where _is_ he?" the schoolboy hisses through his teeth, weary and exasperated where he'd been buoyant as the rest of them only minutes ago. They're sitting on the front steps of the lodging house so that they can talk away from the prying ears of the rest the kids, who are taking the chance to visit the injured kids until Kloppmann inevitably finds out they ain't paying and shoos 'em all out.

Race lets out a breath, wincing as it twinges his bruised ribs. Those Brooklyn boys got in a few good blows before their leader stepped in, and he's definitely feeling it today. "Cowboy's always talked 'bout goin' West," he murmurs, the words bitter on his tongue.

"He _wouldn't_ ," Davey says but there's a faint note of desperation beneath the conviction. He's got the copy of the Sun, which has been opened and folded again so many times by so many hands, it's starting to wear thin on the seams. Davey gazes at the photo on the front page and licks his lips. "There's - he'll be back."

"What's we s'posed to do 'til then?" Race asks.

"We need to come up with a new strategy," Katherine Plumber says. It still amuses Race to see her standing in front of them, this highfalutin skirt with her fierce eyes and teasing smirk. He didn't know what to think of her at first, but there's no denying the girl came through on her word. "We need to let them know we aren't going to back down."

"We?" Davey echoes, and there's a shadow of a smile on his lips when he glances up at her.

Katherine's eyes narrow slightly and she plants her fists on her hips. It's a posture Race recognizes; his ma used to do that when he was in trouble, a stance that always preceded a good hollerin'. (Those were almost worse than pa's belt, the words hurting somewhere far deeper.) "I'm with you in this, you know that."

"I know," Davey says, holding up a pacifying hand. He opens his mouth like he's about to say more, but then his brow furrows. Race follows his gaze, passed Katherine toward the street corner, and feels his stomach turn over. There are two large boys headed their way purposefully, and Race definitely recognizes the red blotch beneath the eye of the one.

"Brooklyn," he breathes, awed. What the hell are Brooklyn boys doing here? Someone come to tattle on Race for crossing the line? Conlon sending out more threats and empty promises?

Davey and Race both scramble upright, the former tucking the folded newsprint into his vest, as the Brooklyn pair approach the steps. The one with the red splotch is definitely the same one Race tussled with the night before, and there's a scratch on his cheek that Race is pretty sure is his fault. The boy eyes Race pointedly and Race returns the look coolly.

Ignoring the stare-down, the other Brooklyn boy clears his throat. "Where's Kelly?"

"Busy," Davey responds, lifting his chin. So much for being raised not to lie. "What do you want with him?"

The guy surveys Davey appraisingly. "Youse the other one came with Kelly?" he says, and it's obviously not a question. "The other genius 'hind your li'l strike?"

Davey fidgets slightly. "Yes. Now, what do you want?"

"We's here to tell ya Brooklyn's in."

"What?" Race asks, blinking at the boys in surprise. Next to him, Davey looks just as gob-smacked, and Katherine's latched onto his wrist in shock.

"Word's straight from Spot Conlon," Heart-splotch says imperiously. "Ya proved youse guys ain't kiddin' about a strike. So, next event ya do, we's there."

Davey manages to regather his senses before Race does, which is probably a good thing all around. "Thank you," he says earnestly. It amuses Race slightly when the schoolboy spits in his palm and holds it out, remembering his disgust from that first day. Things have changed so much in just a few short days. _They_ have changed, all of them.

Both Brooklyn boys spit-shake with Davey before they nod and turn away. The three of them watch the messengers disappear around the corner before they speak, looking between each other with wide eyes. "We got Brooklyn," says Davey, breathless.

"Which means we's gonna have 'em all," Race adds. "They was all waitin' on Brooklyn. They hear Spot Conlon's behind us, they're all gonna come too."

"We can do this," Davey says and it's with that same sudden fierce intensity that started this whole thing. Race can actually see the fire of hope in his eyes. "This is what we needed. We showed them. We're going to make this count. With all of New York behind us, they can't stop us now."

"Okay, boss," Race says, nodding. "What's the plan?"

Davey seems startled at the question, although whether it's because he doesn't have an answer or is just confused at being the one in charge, Race can't tell. The tall boy fingers the buttons of his vest distractedly, glancing between Race and Katherine, and his jaw sets. "We need to bring everyone together," he says firmly. "All of the newsies, from every neighborhood. A proper union gathering. We need to get everyone together, hear from everyone, make sure we're all on the same page. That way we present a united front the next time we face Pulitzer."

"Like a rally?" asks Katherine, expression thoughtful.

"Yes, _exactly_ ," Davey says energetically. "A rally. We can even do it in the evening, so no one's got to miss a day's work."

Race frowns. "Where we gonna do that?" he asks. "Gotta think they's just gonna sic the Bulls on us again we go back ta' the square. Ain't a lotta places off the streets I can think of big 'nough for that many fellas, not that we can get inta'. Lodgin' house ain't even big 'nough for that."

"What 'bout the theatre?" They all jump at the voice, turning to see Les standing at the top of the stairs. Race's gut still twists at seeing the bruised and swollen wrist peeking out of the sling, product of a Delancey. "The one with the pretty girls?" Les continues, unperturbed by their staring. "Miss Medda was real nice. Ya think she'd let us go there?"

"The theatre," Davey gasps and he smacks his forehead. "Of _course_. Les, you're a genius!"

"I know," Les responds, grinning.

"Where ya goin'?" Race asks when Davey starts down the steps.

"To find Jack," says Davey. "And get us a place to rally. Be back soon." And the tall boy sprints off down the street, leaving the rest of them to exchange glances.

"Racer," Les says, tugging his sleeve. "Blink wants ya. They need help gettin' Elmer up, his ankle ain't good."

Race sighs and makes for the door, leaving Katherine and Les to whatever they're talking about now. As he heads up the stairs inside, the eyes of every newsie follow him expectantly. The stares crawl across his skin like flies. Is this what it feels like to be in charge? He's never wanted to be the leader, but with Jack - and now Davey - gone, apparently the mantle's fallen to him. Race fights back a flinch when he opens the lodging room door and the weight of all those eyes (and the accompanying responsibility) settle on him.

No time to be nervous. Someone's gotta keep these kids alive. Guess that someone is him for now. 

* * *

If Race wasn't seeing it with his own eyes, he never would've believed it true. Hell, he's been running around helping make plans all day, but some part of him still expected it all to fall apart somewhere along the way. It seemed like some vague, distant pipe dream, but the inside of the theatre (and hey, it's nice to finally know where Jack runs off to when he's hiding from them) is packed to the bursting with newsies from every corner of New York. And there in the middle of it all, Spot Conlon's shaking hands with Davey.

They've really done it. They really got everyone together under one roof. An army of kids, united for one purpose. Let's see Pulitzer ignore them now.

Then Jack decides to make his grand appearance and blows it all to hell.

Betrayal is a knife in the gut and Race burns with it when he sees Jack accept the stack of bills from Pulitzer's goon. Thinking Jack ditched them and ran away was one thing, but Jack selling them out is an agony Race never could've anticipated. Not Jack. Not the guy who's been like a big brother to Race since they met, two starving kids sharing a cot in the Refuge, relying on each other 'cause they had no one else no more.

Race screams and lunges for Jack, but he's being held back. He doesn't know who, don't really care. He thrashes against the hands keeping him back, fighting them like a raging beast, because he's gotta make Jack feel even a _fraction_ of the pain he's just caused Race. There are voices, people yelling his name, but it falls on deaf ears. He claws and flails and shouts until Jack's long gone from the building, and only then do the hands release him.

Storming passed everyone, ignoring Davey trying to calm the crowd of newsies back into order, Race shoves his way out of the back door of the theatre. He takes a deep breath of the cold night air and fumbles in his pocket for his cigar. Leaning against the alley wall, he searches his pockets and huffs when he can't find a light. Of all the times to run outta matches...

A spark of gold appears in the air, startling Race, and he looks over. There, in the glow of the match, is Spot Conlon. "Uh, thanks," Race says, leaning in to let the other boy light the cigar. He takes a long drag as Spot shakes out the matchstick and tosses it away. It's only courtesy to share at that point, so Race offers over the cigar with a questioning look.

"Cheers," Spot says, accepting it with a nod. "Helluva show your boy put on in there."

"Shaddup," Race snaps, the sting of treachery still too fresh. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on 'im-"

Spot snorts, passing the cigar back. "Get in line," he says dryly. "Ya know, we was friends once, me and Cowboy? Long time ago, 'fore eitha us was leadin' anythin'. We ain't agreed on lots, but I never 'spected him ta' turn into a fuckin' _Scab_."

"Look, I know that was bad," Race says resolutely, considering the soft glow of the cigar tip to avoid meeting Spot's gaze, "but we _ain't_ givin' up. Don't matter what Jack says. I ain't votin' no, and I know a lotta the fellas ain't eitha. And we could still use ya help."

"Planned on it." The statement is made so matter-of-factly it catches Race off guard, and he glances across at the other boy. Spot smirks. "Gave my word, yeah? Toldja, next event, Brooklyn's there."

Race lets out a mouthful of smoke in a relieved breath. "Was worried, what with Jack 'an all," he admits.

"Didn't come 'cause of Jack," Spot says as he takes the cigar back. Race frowns, confused. "Sure, was plannin' to follow his lead, but that ain't why I 'greed to come. Took some real stones, marchin' into Brooklyn and shoutin' at me in front'a my boys. Damn stupid, too. Youse lucky ya ain't face-down in the Hudson."

"Why _ain't_ I?" Race asks, honestly curious.

Spot twirls the cigar between his fingers. "Point is," the Brooklyn king says, "I ain't here 'cause Jack asked. I's here 'cause some dumbshit punk was so damn all-fired he went right inta' the dragon den and kicked it. Figure if ya was willin' to gamble that much on whatcha doin', might not be a bad bet. You _do_ got a decent head for gamblin', afta all." At Race's raised eyebrows, Spot's lips twist. "Yeah, I know who ya is, _Racetrack_. Don't nobody come and go in Brooklyn without me knowin'."

Race whistles. "Damn, Spot Conlon knows who I is," he says sarcastically. "Ain't I special?"

The shorter boy deadpans, but there's a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, reflecting the weak orange gleam of the cigar. He takes another long drag and then hands it back to Race, letting the smoke out slowly. "I'mma get back inside. We's got a rally ta' finish." With that, Spot turns and heads for the door. His hand is on the knob when he pauses. "And if things don't work out for ya in 'Hattan, ain't no one sellin' 'round Sheepshead righ'now."

Race almost drops the cigar in surprise, but before he can ask, Spot's slipped inside without a backward glance. Did Spot Conlon just offer him a sellin' spot in Brooklyn? He's already having a hard time believing the king of Brooklyn was somehow - what, _impressed_? - by his suicidal trip across the Bridge. But this? Nah, it's gotta be a joke or somethin'.

Shaking his head, Race takes one last drag and then stubs out his cigar against the brick wall. There's still enough left to enjoy some more another night. Once it's extinguished, he tucks the stub into his shirt pocket, straightens his hat, and takes a deep breath. Time to get back inside. Just like he told Spot, Jack Kelly or not, they're still going to do this thing. No room to back out now. 

* * *

The early evening breeze off the bay is bracing as Race ambles the last few blocks from the trolley stop, the coins in his pocket jingling brightly. He made good sales today, the warehouse fire headline grabbing folks' attention easy as pie, and he didn't even have extra papes to sell back at the end of the sellin' day. Things have been good for them in the week since the strike ended, and even with the extra nickel-a-hundred cost, the ability to take another ten or twenty papes without worrying is really helping him make up for the couple days of not working.

Now, content that he's got more than enough to pay for his dinner and lodging for the night, Race is making his first trip back to Sheepshead since the strike. It's late in the afternoon, and even with the trolley savin' him time, he's probably missed all the good races. Course, by this time, the fellas'll be a few drinks in and the ones who won will be feeling cocky. He can probably wrangle a couple folks into a card game, snag a bit of their winnings that way.

There's no missing the looks he gets from a couple Brooklyn newsies he sees on his way, expressions varied from distrust to curiosity. He's not surprised, after the last time he was in Brooklyn. Layin' into the king of the borough on his own doorstep is sure to be the sorta thing that gets 'round. Race doesn't know what Spot told them when he gave Race permission to come back, but it clearly didn't appease everyone.

A few familiar faces greet Race beyond the gates to Sheepshead, and he waves cheerily to a couple of the regulars, the sorta guys who care more about the drinks and company than actually winning. "Hey, kid, ain't seen you in a while," Roger says, the slur in his voice saying he definitely won a good bet.

"I seen you on the paper," George chips in, flicking ash from his cigarette.

"You was in the papes?" Roger asks, leaning forward in interest.

"Front page'a the _Sun_ ," Race says proudly, hooking his thumbs beneath his suspenders.

"He's with them kids was strikin' at the _World_ ," George says knowingly. He glances up to Race again. "Was worried 'bout ya, kid. Heard a buncha ya got soaked."

Race scoffs, rolling his eyes, and tucks his cigar into the corner of his mouth. "Take more'an that ta' get me, fellas," he says breezily. "But I'm flatta'd ya care so much. Makes a fella feel real special, that does."

After some more banter and joking around, Race slips into the betting booths to drop a dime on the final race of the day - odds are long but he's got a good feeling about that spotted pony. He whoops excitedly when he proves Roger and George both wrong, coming away at the end of the race with an extra two bit to his name. The fellas must really have missed him, 'cause a couple of them even let him talk them into a card game. It's an excellent way to pass the evening, smoking and losing just enough hands that the guys don't get suspicious as he gradually accumulates their earlier winnings penny by penny.

The sun's getting low when Race bows out, knowing he's still got to make the trek back across the Bridge. "See ya 'round, fellas," he says to the men, who are all skewed more towards drunk now. "Pleasure takin' ya money." They grumble and shoo him off, but Race isn't concerned. These are his people. They'll forgive him by tomorrow, and he'll win their money all over again, just like always. Hands in his pockets, Race leaves the tracks with a grin.

"They ever find out ya cheat at cards, they'll stomp ya."

The voice from the shadows makes Race jump, and he spins, fists already up to defend himself. Spot Conlon pushes off the wall of the next building, smirking. "I ain't a cheat," Race says, folding his arms on his chest indignantly. "Won fair 'n' square."

"Dunno, pretty sure most folks think it ain't sportin' to count cards," Spot replies with a raised eyebrow.

"Dunno whatcha talkin' 'bout," Race says, shrugging. "Ain't no good at numbers anyway."

Spot snorts. "We both know that's a lie," he says but he's not accusing. If anything, he sounds amused. "Was wonderin' how long it was gonna take ya ta' come back."

"You been waitin' for me?" Race asks, intrigued. In fact, come to think of it, if Spot was able to tell Race counts cards, he must've been watching for a while. "You _have_ been," he realizes, laughing. "Keepin' an eye out for me? Careful or you gonna give a fella the wrong idea." The joke slips out before he can think better of it, and he immediately flinches. It's one thing to make those kinds of jokes around his friends, but insinuating that the king of Brooklyn might be queer - even in the vaguest of terms - is definitely a direct line towards a soaking.

So it surprises him when Spot just scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Makin' sure ya don't cause no trouble like we agreed," he says. Still, there's something a bit tense about the line of his shoulders that catches Race's eye, something in the way he isn't actually looking at Race's face anymore. Huh, now _that's_ a curious thought... "You 'Hattan kids is all useless," Spot continues dryly. "Speakin' of, how's ya boys?"

"All healed up and back in action," Race says, nodding. He pauses thoughtfully before he adds, "Even Crutchie's all fixed up too, back to himself." Spot lets out a breath that confirms Race's suspicion. "You know him, doncha?"

"Met him once or twice," Spot agrees vaguely. "Good kid. Was sorry he got hurt in all that."

Race nods, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Well thanks again," he says. "Know others has a'ready said it, but still, ya came through for us and it saved a lotta skins."

"Union's good for all us," Spot says diplomatically. Then he licks his lips and adds, "'Sides, wasn't gonna end up with more blood on my hands. Some punk kid reminded me sometimes there's things worth riskin' a stompin' for."

Race stares at him in surprise, brain struggling to process the moment. He can tell that this is significant, that Spot Conlon just as good as admitted he was wrong and Race was right. It should feel like some sort of triumph, but instead of satisfaction, Race just feels - sympathy. Sympathy for this boy who's got the weight of the kids of the sixth biggest city in the world on his shoulders. Race got a taste of what that responsibility feels like in those few hours he was in charge of Manhattan, and he doesn't envy Spot's position.

Spot clears his throat. "So, you headed back to 'Hattan or," he plucks a cigar out of his pocket and holds it up between them, "ya got a few minutes? Figure I owe ya, afta ya shared yours at the rally."

He really should be getting home, it's a long ass walk and it's already gonna be dark by the time he reaches the Bridge, but- "Mm, I neva can say no to a smoke," Race says, grinning cheekily.

"Why ain't I surprised?" Spot says dryly, with a fleeting glimpse of an answering smile. "Follow me."

Race trails behind Spot curiously as he leads the way around the block and then starts up a fire escape on the side of a dingy office building. When they finally emerge on the roof, Race can't stop a small breath of surprise. They're just high enough that they can see over the neighboring buildings, out across Sheepshead Bay toward Coney and beyond, the dying sun casting glimmers of color and light on the tossing water.

"Helluva view," Race says appreciatively, leaning his elbows on the low concrete wall around the roof edge.

Spot cocks a hip against the bricks next to him, nodding. "Best view ya gonna get this side of the city," he says. He clamps the cigar between his teeth and retrieves a little matchbook from his pocket. After lighting the cigar, he draws in a deep breath and then passes the cigar to Race. Spot tips his head back, blowing out a stream of smoke with a slight grin. "What sorta king'd I be if I didn't know the sights of my city?"

Race takes a drag on the cigar, savoring the taste. It's a good brand; not Corona, fo'sure, but a step up from what Race usually gets away with stealing. "Ya know, I can't figure ya out," he admits. Spot raises an eyebrow in silent question. "Ya should'a stomped me inta' the ground first time we met, but ya didn't. Weird enough, ya lettin' me live, but why you bein' friendly? Sharin' smokes and chattin' and all. I don't get it."

"Wouldja rather I stomp ya?" Spot responds dryly and cracks his knuckles against the wall. Then he reaches out and plucks the cigar from Race's hand. "I _should'a_ stomped ya," he agrees. "Coupl'a my boys is still sayin' so, too. Was fuckin' stupid, you comin' here callin' me a _coward_ ," the word is ground out between his teeth and the heat behind it makes Race flinch, "in front of my boys. Youse damn lucky my boys listen ta' me or you'd been mud soon's ya set foot on the bridge tonight."

"Then why ain't I?" Race presses because his curiosity is definitely outweighing his common sense right now. Nothing good can come of questioning Spot's motives. If anything, he's just going to provoke Spot into doing what he should've done in the first place. But the question's been gnawing at him for weeks and he needs to know.

Spot considers the glowing tip of the cigar with narrowed eyes, his attention somewhere far away from their little private rooftop. "Dunno yet," he admits and holds out the cigar. Race accepts it, watching the king's face for any flicker of what's going on beneath that passive indifference he always wears on the surface. Spot turns to mirror Race's position, folding his arms on the wall. "Ya know, ain't nobody talked ta' me like that since I took ova Brooklyn. Been leadin' this bunch a'most two years now. Folks, they gimme the respect I earned. Then you show up."

Race doesn't know what makes him do it, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "So I wasn't no diff'rent then."

Steely eyes flick to Race's face, spearing into him like the cold edge of a knife. "Ya sayin' that's the respect I deserved?" His tone is hard and flat, sending a shiver down Race's spine.

Yet, at the same time, Race is less afraid of the boy in front of him now than he was the first time they met. Here, alone on this roof where no one would be any the wiser if Spot snapped his neck, Race finally feels like they're on even footing.

So he lifts his chin and shrugs. "Yeah, least for then," he agrees.

Spot considers him for a long moment, and then he shakes his head. "You got some real guts, kid," he remarks. "Eitha that or a death wish."

"Some'd say it's a bit'a both," Race replies easily, and he leans over to snag the cigar back from Spot. "Part'a my charm."

That tugs an amused snort out of the shorter boy. "Charm ain't the word I'd use." He glances sideways, watching as Race takes a long drag on the cigar. "Thing is, whether youse brave or just stupid, I figure havin' someone with guts like that on my side might not be such a bad thing."

"You tryna steal me from Jacky?" Race asks, eyebrows jumping toward his hairline.

"Didn't know he owned ya," Spot replies and there's something more underneath that, an implication hidden under the words that makes Race's stomach turn over. Race knows what he is, and he ain't ashamed of the fact he's queer, no matter how much folks tell him he should be. Sure, he don't go shouting it in the streets - jokes aside, he ain't looking to get himself arrested - but that don't make it less true. It's not the first time he's heard comments like that, especially not with the way he runs his mouth and makes dumbshit jokes, but it's a different thing entirely coming from _Spot Conlon._

Except, then Race remembers that moment before, when a simple joke made Spot nervous and dismissive. Can't be... Licking his lips, Race makes a deliberate action of drawing the cigar between his lips. It's a trick he's used before on fellas down on Columbia Street, to figure out which ones are there for the dancing girls and which ones are there for something else entirely.

And Spot's eyes fix on the motion with an intensity that lights sparks in Race's stomach. Well, whaddya know...

"Don't nobody own me," Race says. Spot's gaze jumps away immediately, like he's just realized what he was doing, and he stares out over the bay. Race considers the cigar for a second and then passes it over. "But Manhattan's home. They's my family."

Spot scoffs derisively. "Had a family once, that was more'an enough fa' me." The undercurrent there is obvious, something angry and pained that resonates with Race, as familiar as his own shadow. It's the sort of ghost that dogs so many of the newsies, no matter how hard they try to escape it. After all, it's not like a kid moves onto the streets if he got somewhere better to go.

"Yeah, mine was shit too," Race agrees. "S'why I traded 'em in for a new one." Spot gives a wry chuckle at that, the smoke curling from his lips like dragon's breath. "Ain't you guys got that here?" Race asks curiously. "You and your boys, youse family, right?"

"King of Brooklyn don't got family." Spot says it flatly, unconcernedly, but it somehow still twists something painful in Race's chest. "What I got is more'an a hundred kids that's my responsibility to keep 'live."

"Ain't ya even got friends?" Race asks. He doesn't know why this suddenly matters to him so much, but he can't bear the thought that this kid is all alone in the world. All by himself with no one to help shoulder the incredible responsibility he's taken on. "Some'a ya boys ain't so bad. What 'bout Splotch-face? He seems like a real winner."

The laugh that breaks out of Spot is loud in the gathering darkness, so unexpected that it startles Race. Judging by the bemused look on Spot's face, it surprised him just as much. "Splotch-face?" he echoes questioningly. "You talkin' 'bout Spades?"

"The one with the red blotch," Race says, tapping his cheek in the place where the Brooklyn crony has the birthmark. "Kinda shaped like a heart but upside-down."

"Or like a _spade_ ," Spot says, putting deliberate emphasis on the words. Race hums in comprehension. Yeah, that makes more sense now. "How ya play cards ev'ry damn day and never notice a spade's an upside-down heart?"

"Generally try ta' keep my cards right way up," Race responds cheekily. "S'why I win so much."

Spot chuckles. "That and ya cheat." They lapse into quiet for a moment, trading the cigar back and forth between them. "So I s'pose that mean ya ain't gonna take me up on sellin' in Brooklyn, then? 'Cause still don't got no one staked at Sheepshead since Dodger up and took that fact'ry job in Jersey."

The idea is tempting. The tracks would be a helluva place to sell, honestly. He's already got a good rep with so many of the regular fellas. He can already imagine hawking headlines to the fellas at the betting booths; could probably even sell on just saying he got tips on the races, con folks into dropping a nickel on his opinion which pony got the best odds. Be so much easier to turn around and be able to start tossing his own bets soon as he sells out for the day, give him more time to gamble and play cards without having to hike all the way out from Manhattan after a selling day.

But in the end- "Manhattan's still home."

"Figured," Spot says, shrugging.

"Speakin' of home," Race says reluctantly, "should pro'lly get a move on." Night has set in properly now and their little rooftop hideaway is bathed in shadows as the streetlamps below glow yellow. With the sun gone, the breeze coming off the bay is frigid, and Race subtly wraps his arms closer to his body. Almost that time of year he's gonna have to start wearing a jacket. (Now he's just gotta save up the money to buy one.)

"Gonna walk all that way in the dark?" Spot asks. "Trolleys is done for the night." The cigar has burnt down to nothing, so he grinds the last of the sparks from the papers against the bricks. "Ya ain't gonna make it back 'til sunrise, ya leave now. Ya can bunk at our lodgin' house, head back to your turf in the mornin'."

Race shoots a sideways look at the Brooklyn leader, and this time he can't stop the small smile that crosses his lips when he teases, "Ya keep this up, Spotty, I'm really gonna go gettin' the wrong idea. Startin' to think ya planned this whole thing so I'd have to stay the night."

The gamble pays off when the quick flash of a grin twists Spot's mouth. "Don't flatta ya'self," he replies. "Just don't wanna deal with Kelly if ya get ya'self killed while youse on my turf."

"Dunno if I wanna bunk with ya boys," Race admits as they start down the fire escape. "Half 'em is still givin' me the stink eye. Dunno if I trust 'em not to soak me in my sleep. Might have betta chances riskin' the streets."

Spot scoffs. "Don't be such a pantywaist," he says dryly. He doesn't speak again until they're down on the street again. Under the soft yellow gleam of the lit streetlamps, Spot tucks his hands in his pockets. "But if youse that worried 'bout it, can bunk in my room," he offers. "Got my own. Perks of bein' the boss."

Race appraises Spot thoughtfully. The Brooklyn boy looks much the way he always does, expression that unique blend of confidence and disinterest, but there's a certain stiffness to his posture that betrays something deeper. The words were vague enough they can be played off as entirely innocent, a far shot from a frank proposition, but there's a weight to Spot's expectant gaze. It's a dangerous gamble, nothing short of a death wish if he spins it wrong-

Grinning, Race bumps his shoulder against Spot's and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Good to know romance ain't dead," he says with a theatrical swoon.

"Youse an idiot," Spot says, shoving him playfully, but the laugh beneath his tone tells Race he gambled right. "Dunno why I put up with ya."

"Ah, c'mon Spotty," Race says, falling into step with the Brooklyn newsie and bumping shoulders. "I think you and me's gonna be the best'a friends."

 


End file.
